"Alles gut?" Dieselhorst asked again.
"Alles gut," Hans-Ulrich said firmly.
Holland wasn't a big country. There lay Rotterdam, on both banks of the New Maas. It was a big shipping town, with the most important quays on the north side of the river. Most of the city, including the central square, was on the north bank, too.
"There's the square we're supposed to hit," the squadron leader said. "Follow me down." The underside of his wings flashed in the sun as he aimed his Ju-87 at Rotterdam's heart like an arrow. One after another, the planes he led peeled off after him.
Acceleration shoved Hans-Ulrich against the back of his armored seat. Facing the other way, Albert Dieselhorst experienced dives very differently. He always thought the Stuka was trying to tear the straps off him and pitch him out over his machine gun and through the window behind him.
No antiaircraft fire here. The Dutch must not have thought Germany would attack the towns. Didn't they pay attention to what happened in Czechoslovakia? If they didn't, too bad for them.
Rudel yanked the bomb release lever. Suddenly, the Ju-87 was lighter and more aerodynamic. He pulled back on the stick to come out of the dive. The Stukas, he saw, weren't the only planes working Rotterdam over. High above them, Do-17s-Flying Pencils to friend and foe alike-and He-111s sent bombs raining down on the port. They couldn't put them just where they wanted them, the way a Ju-87 could. But all that high explosive was bound to blow somebody to hell and gone.
"Alles gut?" Dieselhorst asked one more time. "Sure looks good," he added-he was the one who could see what the bombs had done.
"Couldn't be better," Hans-Ulrich answered, and flew back toward the airstrip from which he'd taken off. SERGEANT ALISTAIR WALSH WAS WHERE HE was supposed to be: on the Dyle, in central Belgium. The whole BEF was on the line of the Dyle-the whole BEF, less what the Germans had blown sky-high. If what had happened to the rest of the force was anything like what had happened to Walsh's unit, the BEF was missing more than it should have been.
One of the soldiers in Walsh's platoon waved to him. "What's up, Puffin?" Walsh asked. Everybody hung that name on Charlie Casper-he was short and round and had a big red nose.
He also had news: "Bloody goddamn Dutchmen just tossed in the sponge."
"Where'd you hear that?" Walsh demanded in angry disbelief.
"Bloody goddamn wireless."
"But they can't," Walsh said, though he knew too well that they could. He went on protesting: "They just started fighting-what?-five days ago. We all just started five days ago." Except for a few useless rounds aimed at German planes, he had yet to fire a shot.
"And now they've bloody well stopped," Puffin Casper said. "Bunch of damn rotters. Said the Germans bombed the hell out of that damn Rotter place, and they couldn't take any more of that, so they went belly-up."
Something seemed to have gone missing there. Whatever Puffin had heard, he hadn't got it straight. But if the big news was right-and Walsh had no reason to doubt it was-what difference did the details make? Not bloody much, as Casper would have said.
Walsh looked north. "So they'll hit us from that way and from the east," he said. "Just what we need."
"Frenchies'll help us," Puffin said.
"Well, maybe." Walsh didn't argue, not right out loud. Casper was only a kid. If he had confidence in the French army, more power to him. He might even end up right. The French Seventh Army, which was in place north of the BEF-on the far side of the Scheldt-was supposed to be big and strong. Maybe it was. Or maybe the BEF would have to go it alone. Back in 1918, British forces seemed to have done that when the Kaiser's army hit them with one haymaker after another.
(That the French would have said the same about the British had never come to Walsh's notice. If it had, he would have called the man bold-or rash-enough to give him such news a goddamn liar.)
Artillery rumbled, off to the east. Some of those were Belgian guns, firing at the advancing Germans. And some of them were German, making sure the bastards in field-gray kept on advancing. The gunfire was getting louder, which meant it was getting closer to the Dyle. Sooner or later-probably sooner-Walsh figured he would make the Germans' acquaintance again.
An officer came up to him. For a second, he thought the man was British. Then he saw the funny rank badges. A Belgian, he realized. Ordinary Belgian soldiers looked like Frenchmen, mostly because of the Adrian helmets they wore. But officers had British-style uniforms.
"Where is your command post?" the Belgian asked in accented but understandable English.
"Why do you want to know…sir?" The British sergeant knew he sounded suspicious, but he couldn't help himself. The Dutch had just thrown in the towel. What if the bloody Belgies were about to do the same thing? Their king hadn't wanted to let any Allies in till the very last instant-which was liable to be too late.
But this fellow said, "The better to arrange cooperation between your forces and mine. You are a sergeant, is it not so?"
What do you think you're doing, asking me questions? was what he meant. Walsh didn't think he could get in much trouble for slowing up a wog, but he didn't want to find out the hard way he was wrong. He pointed north. "Go that way, oh, three hundred yards, and you'll see the regimental tent."
"Yards?" The Belgian officer scratched his head.
"Yes, sir." Alistair Walsh felt like scratching his, too. Then he figured out what had to be wrong. Stupid foreigners with their idiot measures. "Uh, three hundred meters." Close enough.
The Belgian nodded. "Ah. Thank you." Off he went, happy as a ram in clover.
"What do you want to bet they're the next ones out?" Puffin Casper said dolefully.
"Wouldn't be surprised," Walsh agreed. "They'll tear a nasty hole in our lines if they do bugger off, though."
"They'll care a lot about that, they will," Puffin said.
More Belgian soldiers came back over the Dyle. Some of them still looked ready to fight. They were just blokes doing their jobs. Others had done all the work they aimed to do for a while. They slipped back toward the rear first chance they saw. Still others were walking wounded. Some of them seemed angry. Others seemed weary and in pain, as they no doubt were. Still others might have been relieved. They'd fought, they'd got hurt, and they were still alive. Nobody could expect them to do anything more.
Englishmen would have reacted the same way. The idea that foreigners could act just like ordinary people never failed to surprise Walsh.
And then, with the throb of airplane engines overhead, the only foreigners he cared about were the Germans. He ran for the closest trench and jumped in.
These weren't dive-bombers, anyway. They stayed high overhead and let their bombs rain down on the general area of their targets. The whistles as the bombs fell weren't quite so bad as the screaming sirens on those vulture-winged diving bastards. They sure as hell weren't good, though.
When the bombs burst, it seemed as if a million of them were going off at once. Blast threw Walsh around. Blast could kill all by itself without fragments. It could tear lungs to shreds without leaving a mark on a body. Walsh had already seen that. He wished he hadn't chosen this exact moment to remember it.
Engines of a different note made him look up. Fighters were tearing into the bomber formations. He let out a whoop. Somebody else sprawled in the trench said, "Blimey, there really is an RAF!" The soldier sounded astonished.